


A Very Long Shadow

by TheSouthernFalconer



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Hopeful Ending, Kissing, Magic, Morally Ambiguous Character, Reunions, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25592986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSouthernFalconer/pseuds/TheSouthernFalconer
Summary: "She’d watched him hack at the tree with his wooden sword, over and over and over again, as though the toy could fell it. He went at it with a frightening ferocity, crying out until his voice went hoarse and his hands shook. “I’m Montag, and this is my fighting tree.” Pale, pale as the snow, his golden hair pinned up in warrior braids. “Prince Montag.” She’d frowned, for there was no Prince among the Scourge. There was neither King, nor Queen, neither God nor Goddess. "A wounded mercenary walks into Sybilla's tent. He is someone she had never hoped, and yet always knew, she would find again.
Relationships: Lucio (The Arcana)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	A Very Long Shadow

Sybilla snuffed out the lantern outside her tent with a quick spell. It was an empty gesture, she knew. They would come anyway, as they did every night, the mercenaries- ragged men and women with scarred skin and windswept faces- threatening and pleading in turn for sigils, for a turn with the Arcana, for a charm that kept their wits about and their limbs intact for the field. “I cannot stop death,” she told them all, but conjured up a few of her prized protection spells or anyway, a summoning to bless their blades with blood, perhaps a potion to soothe aches and frayed nerves. As well as it paid, it was tiring work, and Sybilla hoped that she’d seen the last of them here at Annyala Gate. She was to leave at daybreak for Nopal. The cards had promised her peace there, and company. Perhaps she would run into them again, those brilliant Vesuvian magicians with that darling, white haired child. Her limbs complained as she rose to pack up a bit. She’d expended more than enough magic here, what with the battlefield and it’s oppressive, dark energies. She could feel a headache coming on, and wondered if she could simply hide her tent with spellwork so she could prepare for her journey, and get some sleep. And she would have, if not for the niggling, insistent voice at the back of her mind that told her to _wait, just a little longer._ She began bundling up her wares- charms, spellbooks, small bags of potion ingredients and utensils into her magically enhanced cloth satchel. She counted her money with a sense of satisfaction. More than enough for the journey, maybe even enough to tide her over to Vesuvia. She tucked her earnings into the enchanted snakeskin pouch that she tied around her waist (Spirits help any poor bandit who’d dare to get handsy with a _witch_ ). With a washcloth, she wiped off the painted dots and markings on her cheeks and around her eyes. She undid her tight braid, letting her hair swing free. The dyed black was wearing out in parts, revealing her natural silver roots. She sighed in relief. _Ah._ That’s where the headache comes from. She switched out her heavy amulet earrings for lighter stud ones, but left her chain on- an amethyst pendant on a charmed string equipped with The Magician’s protection. The tent could come off tomorrow, along with the thick purple rug and the hardy woolen mattress. She’d have to switch that out for something lighter- she was contemplating re-venoming her silver dagger for the road, when, with a heavy _whoosh_ , her gyrfalcon familiar flew into the tent, his wings kicking up a fair bit of dust, before perching on her shoulder. “Hello, Royd,” she murmured affectionately, smoothing a finger through the big bird’s feathers. “Had a nice hunt?”

 _A man’s coming_. Royd seemed to have no time for pleasantries tonight. Sybilla frowned. “Another mercenary?” The bird nipped at her hair thoughtfully. _He seems familiar. Eyes like a wounded wolf. Hungry_ , _frightened. He needs you. Have some light outside._ “Oh, Royd,” she crooned, obliging. Not for the first time, she marveled at her good fortune in finding her familiar, who was as kind as he was ferocious. He knew what Sybilla needed, after the long torment of the tundra, knew she’d needed to be _there_ for those who could benefit from it. On long, sleepless nights, when she battled with the implications of what it had cost her to flee her home, the bargains she had made to survive and the darkness she’d gathered in the crevices of her conscience, she often took comfort in knowing that her soul could not possibly be as damned, as corrupt as she feared it was. Not if Royd had been drawn to her, not if he had followed her, even through all of it.

And so she suppressed a yawn and sat down, cross legged on her mat, her satchel close to her and her deck beside her, and waited. It did not take long before she could hear the voices- two men, she gathered-

“Captain, I really, really don’t think-“  
“Shut the _fuck_ up, Jules. _You_ did this to me, the least you can do-“

“I-“

“Who’s there?” Sybilla cut into their squabble.

A little bit of shuffling, a rustle of the tent, and the two men stepped inside. A tall, comically wiry man (boy?), dressed in a crumpled sleep shirt, petrified gray eyes and long auburn hair pulled back from his face. He had one long arm awkwardly curled around his companion, a mercenary, she could tell by the sword secured by his slim waist. His face was downcast, shadowed, but she could feel his anguish in waves. His shirt hung loose, his left shoulder heavily bandaged and- _Oh._ Sybilla hoped he had not come to ask her for help there- she did not have the alchemy to craft him a prosthetic. Nevertheless, she sat up straighter, gesturing to a spot in front of her. “Sit, please,” she told them. The mercenary roughly shook his companion’s arm off him (“I’m _fine_ , Jules!”) and sat before her with a groan of pain, still not meeting her eyes. _Jules_ , however, lingered at the entrance, looking like he’d be sick if he stayed a moment longer. He cowered a little under her questioning gaze. “Er- Doctor Julian Devorak, at your service, milady.” Sybilla suppressed a laugh at his obvious discomfort. The man spoke the common tongue, but his syllables labored under a heavy accent- Nevivon, she gathered. A Neviv, _and_ a Doctor. There was plenty of daring and swashbuckling in that coastal land, but not a lot of faith in the kind of magic Sybilla did. The mercenary shot the doctor a glare. “You can wait outside, you _wimp”_ he snapped. Taking pity on the man, Sybilla smiled. “You may, Doctor, I take no offense.” He heaved a sigh, wrung his hands a little more, and then dropped into a dramatic bow, before exiting.

Now, she looked back at her visitor. The man still face turned to the ground, as if in pain and shame, his arm wrapped around his middle. Royd settled next to Sybilla, letting out a cry of acknowledgement. “What shall I call you, and how can I help you, soldier?” she asked him softly. Finally, finally, he drew his gaze up, his tired, battle-worn face shining with sweat, shining in the faint light of the tent.

Sybilla gasped, her heart growing hot and cold at all at once- “Mon-“  
His palm was on her mouth at once, smothering the name at the tip of her tongue. “Lillie, _don’t_ call me that” He hissed. His silver eyes flashed dangerously. _Hungry. Like a wounded wolf._ Royd let out a cry of warning, but made no move to attack him, as he would have anyone else. Sensing his desperation, Sybilla grasped his wrist, nodding slowly. He let her go, and she took a moment to catch her breath. She was silent for a few moments. Before her was a man, no longer the boy she remembered, but the sharp lines of his face, the high cheekbones, and those haughty brows and knife-blade eyes were unmistakably Montag’s. There were new scars running down his neck, a small nick across one cheek, and a hardness to him now, a certain studied callousness and a darting alertness which only came with many years of looking over one’s own shoulder. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch her old friend. He looked a little spooked, and unsure, but he smiled the same affected, cocky, boyish smirk. _Still hiding, I see, my friend._ She thought. _You never learn, do you?_

“What _should_ I call you, then?” She asked, breaking the brief spell of silence.

“Lucio.” He said, pride tinging his tone. Sybilla turned the name over in her head. It was warm, and full of light, a blade of fire piercing through the dark, the sun shattering the ice of the Southern lakes. “Lucio.” She echoed, knowing he needed to hear it. “It suits you.” For a moment, the shadows deserted his face, and he beamed at her. He was speaking to her in common tongue, too, and she felt no reason to switch into their native language. It was still too raw, she decided, for him, even after all these years. “Did you know I was here?” Sybilla asked, curiously.

Lucio waved his hand, laughing. “You flatter yourself, Lillie,” he winked, the rogue. “I was just here for a witch. Didn’t think it’d be you.” Sybilla giggled. “You expect me to call you _Lucio_ , and yet you insist on calling me that _ridiculous_ nickname.”

“Yep.” He grinned wider. “No two ways ‘bout that, unless you took another name-” She rolled her eyes. “No, I’m still Sybilla.” She told him.

“Still Lillie, then.” He said, his eyes searching her face. She was suddenly conscious of the fact that she was barefaced, stripped of all her magical markings, only her pale skin, the dark freckles dotting it, and the cares of the years between them. “Still Lillie”, he repeated, as though to himself, as though in a trance. He made a rough, jerky movement with his left shoulder, and then cried out in pain. “I keep- forgetting it isn’t there.” He said, through gritted teeth, his eyes watering rapidly. “It still hurts, somehow.”

“Did you need a potion to ease the pain?” Sybilla murmured, concerned.

Lucio shook his head. “Jules loads me up with enough opium to tide me over the worst of it- and- I don’t want to be seen as the kind of Captain who’d- you know.” Sybilla shook her head in resignation, knowing full well the strange preoccupations of warriors- how power and pain, respect and terror trickled through the ranks. This was nothing new to her. _Montag_ , the boy, had held on to those preoccupations with the same desperate insecurity that Captain Lucio does now. _You really haven’t learnt anything, have you, my friend? All this time and distance and freedom, and all you could do was to choose this, again._ “I want you read my fortune,” he said in a rush. Sybilla blinked. “Oh?” _And you never even asked me if I’ve been well_.

“I want to know if I can fight again.” He went on. “Jules- Jules tells me I _will_ , if I put my mind to it, but it hurts so much and-“ he cut himself off, looking away from her, breathing hard. His face was twisted into that childish, wide eyed pout she remembered so well, the one he’d affected when he was trying to stave off tears by attempting to glower. “I don’t _know_ , Lillie. I want to _know_ if everything’s ruined or not.”

Ah. Hope. He was not the first man, or the first warrior to stagger into a witch’s tent for hope, and he certainly won’t be the last. “Alright, Lucio.” She said calmly. “I’ll read your cards.” She unthreaded her deck and placed it before him. “Cut.” She commanded, and he complied. He stumbled as he shuffled through her instructions, blinking away rapid tears of frustration as he kept moving for the phantom limb. Dogged, reckless determination. She was not surprised when the first card he pulled was The Chariot.

_She’d watched him hack at the tree with his wooden sword, over and over and over again, as though the toy could fell it. He went at it with a frightening ferocity, crying out until his voice went hoarse and his hands shook. “I’m Montag, and this is my fighting tree.” Pale, pale as the snow, his golden hair pinned up in warrior braids. “Prince Montag.” She’d frowned, for there was no Prince among the Scourge. There was neither King, nor Queen, neither God nor Goddess. There was Morga, cold and imposing, trudging through the heavy snow with her blood tipped spear, and her so-called-heir, this waif of a boy- “a leech”, the others had whispered of him. “This runt, and her affection for it, will be her downfall.”Noone ever said it to Morga’s face, as no one had ever said anything to her face and lived to tell the tale. “I’m Sybilla.” She’d replied to him. “Lillie.” He nodded sagely. “Do you want to fight with my fighting tree?”_

_Later, Morga had shaken her head in exasperation, barely sparing Sybilla a glance. “What are you doing, you foolish boy?” she’d asked, “You should be hunting with real blades by now.” It was her face that she’d remembered whenever Sybilla was faced with The Chariot. Her eyes glowing like a wild cat’s, her mouth perpetually set in a snarl, and the way she’d towered over him, towered over Sybilla too, when they’d come head to head. It was in her harsh growl that the card spoke to her, her single minded, merciless determination that drove her from village to village, spilling blood and taking no prisoners._

_She would never tell him so, but she’d heard the rumble of The Chariot in her dreams, the night he slipped away in the dark to summon the Vlaganog, the patron wyrm of their tribe. She heard it loud and clear whenever she imagined what had happened the night that followed, when he plunged his axe into his father’s chest, ripped out his heart, standing in the night’s stillness like a flame, all blood soaked fur and triumphant smile. “Drive your destiny.” The Chariot had declared. “Take the reins, for they are yours.” She’d heard them again when the Scourge woke up to what had transpired. “Do not speak his name again.” Morga had warned them. “He is no longer one of us, and when I see him next, he will pay the price.”_

“The Chariot. Your days of battle are not over, Lucio. You will steer your own destiny yet, come what may. And-” She strained to listen. The drums of war, the battle cries, and the man before her at the reins, resplendent in the Sun. “Conquest. More Conquest is yet to be yours.” His breath left him, his eyes soft and tender, grateful for a moment. “Thank you,” he whispered reverently, and then, suddenly, “Well, that clears it up-“

“No, that’s not how this works, fool.” She snapped. Trust him and his insufferable need for instant gratification. “Draw more.”

Nine of Pentacles. She smiled. He was going to like this one.

_Abundance. They had been collecting their loot after decimating the first village they’d come across. Livestock were wrangled or butchered, grains, stones and weapons greedily plundered. Out of sheer adrenaline, someone kicked off a cooking pot from where it was still boiling over fire. Steam rose from the snow, their heads buzzing from war. Sybilla felt her stomach turn from the stench of death. Morga, however, easily waded through the wreckage, kicking away anything in her way. “Where’s that boy?” she asked Sybilla. Her tone was frozen, and yet even she could pick out the concern in her eyes. “Have you seen Montag, girl?” She asked again. Sybilla shook her head, struggling to form words. Morga cursed under her breath, and clicked her tongue, “I’d just sent Jaeger off to scout- I’ll have to do this myself,” she muttered, making off to search the many ransacked houses. Worried, Sybilla set off too- the boy had always been a little sickly, often struggling with fevers and colds, sometimes fainting in a panic, losing his way in a hunt. What if he was lost and unconscious somewhere? Sybilla hoped she would find Montag before his mother did. That would be no good._

_When she did find him, she just stood there, at the entrance to the broken, mangled hut, and stared. He was fast asleep, limbs splayed out on a-_ bed- _they called it? A four legged contraption she’d seen the other villagers used for resting. The thing was laden with several layers of coarse fur, and Montag lay on top of it, on his belly, face down, his bloody axe next to him, snoring lightly. Incredulous, she roughly shook him awake. The boy gasped, his hand instinctively flying to the handle of his axe. “Montag, it’s just me” she said. In one fluid motion, he sat upright, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes bright. “Lillie, Lillie, this is_ incredible _, this thing.” He looked wild, the charcoal markings under his eyes spread everywhere, battle blood still drying on his skin. “Sit down, see? It’s so soft- I don’t understand why we have to sleep in the snow or on a stone chair when-_ sit, Lillie _!”_

_“Montag, we need to go.” She said, hurriedly. “Come on, your mother’s looking for you.”_

_He wasn’t listening. He swiftly pulled her down beside him. Sybilla felt the fur beneath her fingers. Warm, soft, comfortable. “Lie down, and see, it’s so soft and perfect!” Mesmerized, she complied, despite herself. She settled next to Montag, her head spinning as the fatigue of battle caught up with her. Wolf’s fur, she noticed. And so warm. There was some sort of bundle upon which she could place her head, let her neck relax, let her back rest. Sybilla was struck speechless. Montag was still crowing excitedly beside her, but she could not follow his words. Like a light put out, she fell asleep._

_When Morga eventually found them, she had dragged them away in a fury. Sybilla was limp and petrified, still blinking the sleep from her eyes, but Montag was kicking up a fuss and cajoling._

_“Mama, I swear upon my honor, on Vlaganog, please, please let me have that thing- I’ll make it on my own, I’ll chop a tree and-“_

_“You have no honor, boy, and you have no need for any of that frivolity. You sleep far too much as it is-“ She hissed, giving him a shove. “And you have never done a day of honest work on your own. You will coax and fawn your way through whatever this is, and I will not let that happen. Now move.”_

_“Mama, I swear I won’t-“To Sybilla’s utter mortification, icy tears were running down Montag’s face. She looked away, so as to not embarrass him._

_“You humiliate me, you leech.” Morga’s voice was cold and dangerous. She clutched her spear a little tighter. “What have I done to deserve this- this constant,_ ridiculous _sniveling” She took a deep breath. “If you don’t stop this display, I’m going to leave you here, in the snow, like I should have. And I will_ not _turn back.”  
“You wouldn’t.” He whispered. He looked wounded now, no longer petulant._

 _Morga raised an eyebrow. Then she grabbed Sybilla by the collar, drew her close, and marched off in long strides, leaving her son behind. Years later, she would understand that Morga would have turned around before they even got a mile apart. She would have never left Montag alone in the snow where anything could hurt him, even if he were armed. She would never have let anything hurt him, forget abandon him altogether. But back then, Sybilla’s cry caught in her throat, and she struggled to beg Morga, plead her to turn around, turn around,_ please, _he didn’t mean to. But she didn’t have to. Montag had sprinted all the way up to them, crying and shivering. He wrapped his arms around Morga, whimpering out an apology, and then another. She unlatched her son from herself, much more gently this time, and tugged at his collar without another word._

_Even later, they’d both been punished by having to keep watch while the others were brewing spirits and reveling. Montag had grumbled, but he seemed to have been too tired to put up a bigger fight. She felt a little bad for him. Revelry was the one thing Montag was good at- no one had a dull moment with the boy around. But he looked at her as they sat side by side, staring at the empty horizon, and smiled. “That was neat, huh?” He asked. “That must have been the house of a King. I bet only Kings get to sleep like that.” It hadn’t been. Sybilla figured it out years later, when she began seeing cots and beds and mattresses on the daily. Montag had fit so easily on the it- it could only have been a child’s bed. To this day, her heart ached when she remembered his wonder. “When I take over from Mama, I’ll have one of those things, and I’d never have to sleep on a chair” He said. And then, hesitantly- “You can have one too. Two, if you want, you’re my friend, aren’t you, Lillie?”_

_Sybilla held a diplomatic silence, but he went on. “I’ve never felt that warm in my life” he said, wistfully. “I hate this snow.” Something about his conspiratorial, hopeful tone made her heart twinge painfully. On a whim, she conjured up a flame. The barest spark of one flickered in her palm, and then a stronger one. Her magic was still erratic and untrained, but she managed to simmer the flame into a gentle, invisible warmth. Montag was watching her, his eyes big and bright as a baby bear’s. “Woaaahhh..” he whispered. “Do that again!” he demanded._

_She put a palm on his shoulder, and let the warmth flow through her. Montag’s eyes widened even more, a look of pure wonder washing over his face. He looked breathless and overwhelmed, and Sybilla felt a pang of bitterness at being denied this reverence. He leaned into her touch like a hound, and took big gulps of air as though he could swallow the warmth. “Warm enough?” Sybilla asked, unable to resist the urge to smile smugly. Montag looked on the verge of tears. He nodded. “This feels like- a really big hug.” Then he put both his arms around her. Her magic wavered in surprise, and then steadied as her smile grew. The gesture was awkward, unfamiliar to him.“There.” He said. “Now I can hug you back.”_

_“I can warm you up,” she told him, “only if you don’t tell your mother. You know I’m not allowed to use magic.”_

_Montag looked at her incredulously. She could have asked him for the moon in return for this, she thought, and he would have set off for it without a second thought._

_“I won’t say a word, upon my honor, upon Vlaganog.” He said worshipfully. “And when I’m in charge,” his tone was steadier now, and more determined. In the warmth of that embrace, in his laughter, she heard and felt the endless clinking of gold. Flowers blooming in the distant spring, a river runs to the brim, leaping with fish, and a world without winter. Abundance. “When I’m in charge, you can do all the magic you want to. And you can have a hundred beds if you need them. Even if you don’t need them. You can have a hundred beds. All the beds in the world.”_

“Fortune.” She told Lucio now, “You’re going to come upon great fortune, and riches, where you go next.” His hopeful smile widened into something fierce. “Of course, of course I will, won’t I, Lillie?” He sat up a little straighter, puffing his chest out. He looked at her, although his gaze was distant. “I have big plans, you know.”

“Oh?” She asked. “Bigger plans than being Captain Lucio?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Look, I enjoy being a _condotierro_ , the parties are great, the pay is good. But what I _really_ want, is to join Court. To live in a palace.”

“You want to be Count.” She guessed.

“I want to be Count, King, Emperor, whatever it is that gets me what I need. You need to be important, to make a lot of money.” He said thoughtfully. “But once you are, there are gems and silks and furs, pets and portraits. The first time I had a hot water soak, I nearly died of happiness.” His words came out in a rush, “It was in Prakra, the Queen’s a good woman, knows how to host a company, knows how to throw a party. They gave me salt soaks from Nevivon and the softest towels, and they told me- “help yourself, Captain.”” His face held the same feverish eagerness as it did when he’d discovered that cot in the ransacked village. “Then they threw a feast, in our honor, and every night and day and noon there was food, and when I wanted more, there was more food- have you eaten cookies, Lillie?”

Sybilla shook her head fondly. He gasped, looking personally offended. “Lillie, you _must._ You _must_ buy cookies with what I pay you now! And there was caviar and wine, and everyone said , “help yourself, Captain!” Then, he wrinkled his nose. “But that’s when we have a great contract, you know. And sometimes we don’t, and the beds are hard and the food is cold and late.” He brightened again- “So I want to live in a Palace, so I can have all of it, all the time. I’ll never be cold again, never sleep in a blizzard. And-“

He looked at Sybilla, a little sheepishly now. “And you can have it all too, when you visit. You’re my friend. I’ll spoil you rotten.”

At this, she laughed, unable to stop herself. “Can I have a hundred beds?” She asked warmly.

He returned her laugh, jubiliant. “All the beds in the world.” He chirped back. “Silk sheets, for good measure. And you _never_ have to go back to the Scourgelands ever again.” He shuddered at the prospect. The smile slid off her face. “I’m not- in any case.” She said quietly. He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t think I _can_.” Lucio shrugged his healthy shoulder. “Good for you. Horrid place, it’s a lot more fun out here, don’t you think?”

_You wouldn’t ask me why, Lucio? Or do you not want to know? Would it help you sleep at night if you knew that it was not Morga’s affection that was our undoing? That it was mine? Or would you rather not know, not think at all? Does it matter to you? Has it ever?_

“Draw another card,” she said, quickly. She inhaled sharply when he did. She should have known. Temperance, Reversed.

_Hunger, endless hunger. Even in abundance, a hunger that does not go away, as vast and gaping as the world itself. A shiver ran down her spine. She knew this about him, that he was starved. They all were, in a more literal sense. When the tundra grows unforgiving, when there is nothing left to be hunted, when they swallow ice and let themselves fall asleep, their stomachs caving and empty, the thought of death on their minds. The familiar famine between feasts. Only the strong survived. Only the powerful, survived. Sybilla believed it was the terror of hunger that drove him to what he did, that made him hungry for other, darker things. Temperance, Reversed. A river running over. Montag shattering like glass, lying limp and tearful at her feet._

_“She said I can’t be her heir.” He was shaking with rage, tears smudging his warpaint. He was more than a little drunk from the night’s festivities. He’d just had his hair cut short. Now it lay golden like a lion’s mane or the Sun’s rays. Sybilla swooped down to pick him up by the shoulder. “Lillie, if I’m not the heir, I’m_ worthless. _That’s the only reason she keeps me alive.” She shushed him, running a hand over his cheek. “Morga won’t kill you, Montag.”_

_“You know she’ll- I’ll- it’s not enough. It’s not. I can’t. I can’t. Not again.”_

_Sybilla sighed. Survival. He thought this was about power, convinced himself this was about power. It was about survival, she knew. It was about hunger, and fear. “You’re not worthless.” She wanted to say (should have said). “Let’s flee in the night, go somewhere, anywhere else. You don’t need to be anything. I’ll use my magic, and you can use your strength, and we can survive until we reach somewhere that’s less cruel. You’re enough. There has to be someplace. Some sort of life other than this.” She wanted to say, but she stayed silent. Back then, Morga had loomed like God over their heads. She could not imagine outrunning her, could not imagine a world in which she would not hunt them if they fled. They were both young, hungry._

_“This is insane!” He hissed, kicking the snow with his boots. “I deserve it, I deserve to lead! She’s raised me my whole life for this. And I’ll do a better job than her- she’s just-“ He let out a cry of frustration, and then turned back to her. “I need you to help me.” Sybilla raised her eyebrows, but let him gather her in his arms._

_“You’re my only friend, Lillie, if they know I’m out of her protection, they’ll kill me, they’ll-“ She shook her head. “You’re strong,” she whispered. “Not enough,” he said firmly, as though it were the truth of the world. “Not strong enough. Not strong enough for her, not enough for- I deserve more. I have an idea, and I need your help.” By the time he’d told her what he intended to do, Sybilla was pale and frightened. But another, more insistent compulsion drove her to not turn around and run, but to stay, and ask him-_

_“When you defeat her, will everything be different?”_

_They starved for things no loot could bring them, she knew. Perhaps they still did. She certainly felt the void open its gaping maw, when a summer ago, she found Aisha and Salim- those were their names, the Vesuvian magicians. They’d made enchanted toys and trinkets for their child, painstakingly crafting a book of pictures and riddles (“We need to keep rewriting it, Asra’s already so clever”). Little Asra had walked up to her. “Are you a friend?” he asked her, purple eyes curious and precocious. Aisha had smiled, stroking the child’s mop of snow-white hair. “She’s a friend, don’t be afraid.” Her voice had been low and soothing, and a flash of longing seared through Sybilla’s heart like lightning._

_There were no friends, where she’d come from. At least, not ones made so easily, and there was always fear. Love was a measure of mercy to be spared to one’s lover or one’s young. A flash of steel between them and death, a twist of a bow that ended life and misery before anyone suffered too much, a scrap of meat tossed to sustain someone they cared for. She wondered what Aisha and Salim would have said if she’d told them of those measures of love. “Where we come from, those who loved us stayed their hand when they wanted to kill us. That is all.” They would have been shocked, concerned, and Salim would have moved to put on tea (“With honey? For the company?”) She did not know whether to laugh or to cry._

_There was no company, or trinkets, and there were no reassurances, least of all for Montag. She had watched him grow, turning his fear into a swagger, his inadequacies into a sense of furious entitlement._

_I’m not enough._

_Nothing is enough for me._

_She knew that in the dark, he’d slipped into the cave deep in the woods, shouted out his anger and resentment so the rocks could echo it back. She knew that when he crept into her arms after a long hunt to let her magic warm him up, there were tears clinging to his eyelashes like secrets. Nobody wants me, he’d told her. Nobody wants me anywhere, so I’ll show them. I’ll show them all. This has to end, she thought, night after night. The raids, the bloodshed, the feasts and the famine. There has to be another way._

_“Anything you ask for. You’re my friend, Lillie.” he’d told her that night._

_“When you’re in charge, I want the raids to end. I want there to be better treaties, and trade routes. I want aid and- and magic.” She told him._

_“Everything will be different. I’ll do anything you tell me to.” He echoed back to her. Would he have? Sybilla does not think so, not now. They were both too young, the bloodlust of the Scourge too loud and strong in their veins, and he had always deluded himself into a man he was not. But choices run out faster than the dawn breaks, and so Sybilla agreed to his terms._

_“Alright, I’ll tell you how to summon them, the demons.”_

_Their hunger was a river running out of bounds. It was the sort of excess that ruined clans, brought warriors to their knees. There was no stopping it, no salvaging. Before he left, she’d asked him, her voice wavering with fear “What if I never see you again?”_

_He made no move to come any closer, but his face was set. “You will. Trust me. Upon my honor, upon Vlaganog.”_

_You have no honor, boy._

_But which one of us did?_

_After he fled, driven by the same, ruinous hunger, she’d walked into the deep forest, to make a deal of her own._

“You’re greedy.” Lucio laughed at her words, now. She pressed on. “Nothing will ever feel enough for you. Temperance wants you to pause, and consider what it is you really want.” Before her, he ran a hand through his hair. “I know what I want.” He said. “I want to-“

“Live in a Palace, be King.” Sybilla rolled her eyes. “But what then? How many notches in your shield, how many coats of armour, how many cities should fall before you’ve had enough?”

He looked unpetrubed. “Look, as much as it takes people to remember me. To know who I am. And no one will mess with me, and I’ll be safe. Besides, why should I consider all of that now? I’m barely there yet.”

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Well I don’t know. I’m not your priest or your doctor. This is what Temperance wants you to know.”

“You’ve been a great deal more of a help than the one out there”- he gestured with his thumb in the vague direction of Doctor Julian Devorak. “He’s pretty, though. Anyway, in all seriousness, I _have_ been giving it some thought already, what Temperance was telling you.” He hummed thoughtfully. “That’s why I was so upset when I felt like I couldn’t fight. When I join Court, I was going to settle down.”

Sybilla snickered. “You? Settle down? What, with a spouse and two kids?”

“Hey,” he raised his arm, looking miffed. “Don’t write me off like that, Lillie. But I was thinking, once I’m sovereign, I wouldn’t need to do keep doing what I do now.”  
“No,” Sybilla agreed, heartened.

Lucio sighed dreamily. “I’ll throw the _best_ parties. Fountains of wine, and- and I’ll have shopping districts, like the ones in Prakra. Oh, and definitely, a menagerie. Everyone will _love_ me, just you wait.”

“Do you need to be sovereign, to settle down?” asked Sybilla. “And your mother was a sovereign, and hardly anyone _loved_ her.” She reminded him.

His face curled in distaste. “I’m nothing like _her_. _My_ people will _love_ me.” He scowled childishly for a few moments.

“A famine took them.” Sybilla said quietly. Lucio startled, thrown. “ _Took_ them? The Scourge?” He asked. She nodded slowly. “I believe so. I was out of there, by then. But- I heard them say it, that the lot of them died starving and away from the battlefield.”

Lucio paled. He looked drawn now, ashen and ill. He eyed her tent wildly, as though seeing it for the first time. “Your mother survived,” she told him gently. “I know of those who have seen her since.”

He gave her a tired, troubled smile. “That just means I have to keep running.”

“For how long, Lucio?” She asked.

He looked at her with the same careless determination of that other, fateful night. “As long as it takes.”

She resisted the urge to reach out and take his hand, to warm him over with her magic. Where had her indulgence of him gotten them both? She wondered if it had been for the better, or for the worse.

Without her having to ask, with a quick, jerky movement, he drew another card.

The Tower.

_Everything falls apart. Everything has always been broken, and then it shatters. Morga had found her at sunrise, preparing to flee. Without bothering to reach for her spear, she slapped her across the face. Sybilla crumpled into the snow, crying out in pain. She was livid, shaking and broken, her eyes red-rimmed. “You witch”, she snarled. “You filthy little witch,” She grabbed Sybilla by the collar, and her pelt ripped in Morga’s palm. She struck her again, lost for words. And again, and again. Blood dripped from Sybilla’s lips and nose. “I should have drowned you when I could, you and that brat of mine.” She pushed her back down. Sybilla wailed in agony, but said nothing. What could she have said? “I’m sorry?” She had felt no remorse, only a sense of crushing disappointment. “You deserved it?” Even she could not be that heartless. Although Morga had never loved Lutz, never thought of him as anything more than an occasional convenience, she had still lost Montag. She opted to whimper out in pain, when Morga pressed her feet against her chest. “I made a mistake, by sparing him.” Her eyes flashed silver and gold, and she raised her spear._

_For one, terrifying moment, Sybilla thought that her deal had not worked, that Morga’s spear would pierce her heart, and that she would die, here, bleeding out in the snow._

_But the moment passed, and when her spear came flying down, it went right past her chest as though she were made of water. Sybilla wanted to laugh hysterically. Morga let out a growl of rage, grabbing her by the hair. “What have you done, you demon child?” She twisted her hair violently. “You- you-“ Magic exploded from Sybilla, unbidden, and Morga was thrown an inch back, only an inch, but it was enough. Sybilla staggered through the snow. “Curse you, Morga.” She hissed, cupping her bleeding wounds. The spear flew back at her, and again it did not graze her. “I hope you rot. All of you.” And then, Sybilla turned around, and ran._

_She would wonder for the rest of her life, whose curse it was that finally wiped out the Scourge. Was it Montag’s deal, or was it her own? Or was it simply what happened, when all you prize as a tribe is how efficiently you’ve exorcised any semblance of mercy from yourself? A scout had come crawling to her, emaciated, exhausted- “Morga sent for you.” He stammered, and Sybilla had to stop herself from laughing. She was meaner then, sharper, the demon’s deal boiling hot and cruel in her blood. “We need to- please. We will all die out.” Sybilla felt no remorse when she plunged her dagger into the man’s stomach, felt none when she offered his blood to the many headed beetle of the forest. A life for a life for a life. A life in distress for another. A sacrifice of conscience for an escape from consequences. It was later, when the Price was paid, when the boon was granted, that she was overcome by something akin to conscience. The Tower. The world had shattered around them all, and she knew that nothing will ever be the same again. Who was she? What had she been capable of? What had she done? Again and again, lightning ravaged The Tower. And again and again, the howls of hunger and death chased her, will always chase her. This was no demon’s magic. This was a human heart splintering apart in pain._

He needed to know. She took a deep breath, and told him. “Your mother drove me out. When she knew what I’d done for you.” Lucio looked away from her, and then back at her. What was in his eyes? Guilt? Fear? “Lillie-“  
She raised a hand to stop him. “I would’ve run away, anyway. This just gave me a reason to do it sooner rather than later.” He was breathing hard, taut as a wire. “Did she hurt you?” he asked quietly.

Sybilla shook her head. “Only a little. I- Lucio, I made a deal for myself too. I needed to protect myself from her.” Lucio tilted his head, questioning but untroubled. “I figured.” He said grimly. “You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done something of that sort.”

_My mother, head of the Clan. I remember you telling me. She knows no mercy. She tracks a bleeding enemy over six and two thirds mountains, until they could run no longer. What could we have done, but shatter the world, my friend?_

“I paid my price. And then, then I heard about the famine, they needed my help, I think.”

Lucio raised his eyebrows, and let out a low whistle. “My mother, needed help? Damn.”

He was so unperturbed, so devoid of horror, that she felt at ease.

“What did you do?” He asked, “Did you help them?”

Sybilla shook her head. “I killed the scout who came to get me, and offered his heart to seal my deal. And then I fled the South, and I never went back.”

_Would you have done the same? You, who were always obsessed with giving gifts? Would you have turned up at the tribe’s longhouse with gifts and gold, if only for a chance to gloat?_

Lucio threw his head back, and laughed. He leaned forward, and with one strong arm, pulled her forward by the back of her neck, so that their foreheads touched. He placed his arm on her shoulder, and she instinctively reciprocated, landing hers on his healthy one. Forehead to forehead, shoulder to shoulder. The greeting of the Scourge. “Good.” He told her, fiercely. “Good. All of them can go to hell. They never deserved you. They never deserved either of us.”

And just like that, a knot eased in Sybilla’s chest. His smile was winsome, infectious, and she felt tears build in her eyes. She blinked them away. They stayed that way for a few moments, warm and safe. It was when he let her go that Sybilla remembered the card that he had drawn.

“You’re leaving a trail of destruction, in your wake.” She struggled to keep her voice grave.

He scoffed. “Well, I’d take that as a compliment. It _is_ my job, you know.”

“Your mother would agree,” Sybilla chided.

“No, she’d spout some drivel about duty and honor. What was so honorable about what she did, huh? What she did to me? To Papa? To you? _I,_ at least, see this as a job. I take my money and off with it.” He waved his arm dismissively.

 _Maybe it isn’t about your sword, Lucio. Not everything is. Maybe it is_ you, _your recklessness, that tears everything apart, your lack of any thought for consequences that will be your undoing. Ah, but the Tower is merely not disaster, now is it? When the lightning strikes, the Tower falls, and from the wreckage rises The Star. Who are you, Lucio? Who are we? The lightning that ravages, or the light that bleeds from the wreckage? How long until we draw ourselves and our souls through everything we’ve wrecked? How long until we can outrun our fate?_

Lucio drew another card, and Sybilla flinched back instinctively. She knew that some people had skewed moral associations with The Devil, equating him with evil, but she was not one of them, herself. In fact, she would argue that they worked in close quarters. But tonight, something about seeing his face, the mischievous leer on his face, the claws tangled in loose chains, felt visceral, like a burn. When she looked up at Lucio, she could almost see the outlines of scalding, red-hot chains. She knocked the card away.

“You’ve made more deals.” It was not a question.

He eyed her warily. “Ah Lillie, only when I’m in a particularly tough spot.”

She slapped her palm against her forehead. “You _fool._ ” She snarled. “You can’t just- trade parts of your soul whenever it pleases you. _Why_ do you need to do this?”  
Lucio sighed. “I need enough power to get where I need to. I _have_ to do what I need to.”

“Lucio,” She cried, “Why do you have no faith in your own strength?”

He shrugged. “I do have faith in my own strength. I just want to be safe. And, I have a plan, for all of this. I’ll get it out of the way soon, I promise.”

Sybilla wanted to shout at him some more, but something in his countenance stopped her. He looked lost, wincing and clutching at his wounded shoulder. He looked hunted, too. Haunted. She exhaled slowly, trying her best to calm herself. “Please, _please_ finish this, then.” She told him. “Don’t you feel it, the torment of his chains?”

When Lucio looked at her then, he looked weary, older than his years. “You think I don’t ?” He asked wryly. “Would you believe me if I told you I only feel safe when I feel the weight of those chains around me?”

“Oh, Lucio-“

“You don’t get anywhere without- bargains, Lillie. And I’m determined to get somewhere, and then I’ll stop. I’ll stop, all of this.”

_Somewhere. You mean somewhere safe. Somewhere there are walls of silver and gold, battalions between you and Morga and The Scourge. No, this torment is in your soul, Lucio. This torment is in your mind and your memories, and the nightmares that I know you’ve been having. How I wish I could help you, my friend. How I wish everything weren’t so twisted and wretched._

“Alright.” She said, soothingly. _I keep indulging you. Noone else would. And perhaps that is why I keep doing it._ “Alright, Lucio. I believe you.”  
“I won’t let you down.” He said, his smile returning. “Oh, one more.” He reached towards the deck, and flipped another one.

The Fool. Sybilla heaved a sigh of relief. Lucio was staring at the card as though it had offended him. “Now, you don’t _have_ to-“

“The Fool stands for new beginnings.” Sybilla said. “Wherever you go next, you would find terror, and then freedom.” The Fool never spoke much, only the barest brush of a meaning, the feeling of wind rushing downhill.

“I like the sound of that.” Lucio mused. “The best kind of freedom is the one that comes after terror.”

Sybilla laughed. What an idiot. She yawned then, exhausted. The readings had been heavy, and the Arcana had finally fallen silent. “I feel like Jules would’ve keeled over and died by now. I should leave.” He stood up on his own, shaking with pain. Then he looked at her, his gaze so intense that Sybilla felt a flush creep up her neck. “Do you want to come with me?” He asked. For a moment, Sybilla thought that he was joking. But he kept looking at her with that steady gaze, and she faltered. “No pressure, but it would be _really_ good to have you with us. You’re strong, and smart and invincible, and I’ll pay you _really_ well. And it can be you and me, just like the old times.” Sybilla laughed incredulously at his obvious flattery.

“I don’t fancy war, Captain.” She said, shaking her head. “I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Lucio’s smile did not falter. “What about when I’m Count, or King?” he asked.

Sybilla felt a lightness and joy that she had only ever known with him, even in the biting cold and the bitter famine. He was lonely, she could tell. No matter how many bridges she may burn, he would find his way back to her. She walked closer to him, took his hand as they walked together to the entrance of the tent. Warm, a lot more calloused than she remembered, but achingly familiar. “When you leave war behind you, you can send for me. I’ll come to you.” She promised him, without even having to think of it.

He faced her, his eyes hopeful, so fearfully, tenderly hopeful, his face flushed and open. “Lillie, I swear, you’ll want for nothing. I’ll have you in Court, you’ll live in the finest rooms, the finest everything, I’ll give you anything-“  
_Anything you ask of me. How many times have you promised me the world, only for being your friend? Look where it’s got us. And yet, why do I feel no regret, standing here, looking at you? Nothing is right, and yet somehow everything feels enough, here._

She wrapped her arms around him, and again, with that same heartbreaking desperation as the first time they’d done this, he leaned against her, his face settled against her shoulder. She conjured up the warmth she remembered so well, and it came so easily now, steady and beautiful. Lucio sighed, and then purred like an awkward, overgrown cat. “Warm”, he mumbled against her skin, sounding dizzy. “I love being warm.” She smoothed her palms down his back, soothing his trembling form.

_Rest. Rest, for now. If nothing else, we can offer each other this._

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, Lillie,” he whispered hoarsely, as though it were a confession of undying love.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to you either, Lucio.” She whispered back.

When he raised his head from her shoulder, she wound an arm around his neck, and as easy, as natural as the next breath she took, she kissed him. They were still wrapped up in her magic’s warmth, and his lips were soft, reverent and tender against hers. She had heard of Montag’s former liasions, spoken to a few of them, and none of them had ever called him a tender lover. Passionate, yes. Eager to please, but never tender. Perhaps it was age, and perhaps it was what he felt for her and her alone. His fingers were in her hair, upon her face, tracing her skin as though committing her to memory. When they broke apart, he was blushing and shy as a boy, and she was faring no better.

“That-“ he managed to giggle out “Was a long time coming.”

She murmured an assent, running her hands through his hair. “What if I never see you again?” She asked.

His breath hitched at the memory, and he answered with the same fierce determination as he did back then. “You will. I promise you, you will.” And then he dove to kiss her again, fierce and bruising this time, his arm winding around her waist and drawing her impossibly close, easily lifting her off her feet. Sybilla felt light headed, and made a soft, affirming noise right into his mouth when-

“Ahem, Captain- I must say I don’t think you’re in quite the condition for _this_ level of- exertion.” They broke apart with a gasp, turning around to see that they had, actually, moved out of the tent, and that Doctor Julian Devorak was standing beside them, looking equal parts embarrassed and bemused. Royd, (when did he fly out of the tent?) was perched upon his shoulder, his beady crimson eyes fixed warily upon them. _Well, told you you’d be glad if you waited for him._ She laughed, reaching out to pet her familiar.

Lucio tried hard to hold a scowl. “Jules, you _dog._ ” He snapped. “Why couldn’t you have looked away?”

Julian shrugged. “Nazali never taught me to flake on a patient, my good Captain. Um- nice bird you have here, milady. He did give me company. I’m partial to ravens myself but-“

 _Wouldn’t stop chattering. He’s kind, but fancies himself a martyr. Told me about his sister, Pasha._ Royd ran a commentary on the Doctor as he spoke.

With great reluctance, Lucio untangled himself from Sybilla, and pressed a parting kiss to her forehead. He stroked Royd affectionately. “I’ll find you, send for you, when I’m settled, a bit. You can even send this bird to find me.” The gyrfalcon nipped playfully at Lucio’s fingers.

He unfastened a cloth pouch from his pocket, and dumped a small heap of coins in Sybilla’s palm. “Lucio I-“

“You did work, and more than that, I want to spoil you a bit.” He said. Sybilla did not feel like arguing. She could always use more coin, procure more ingredients or work under different magicians. Now that she was free to use magic, she was greedy to know everything there was to know about it. And she _had_ done honest work.

“Do you need anything? A horse? A carriage?” Lucio asked.

She laughed, “No, I prefer the walk. It’s nice and warm on the road to Nopal.”   
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. He looked as though he was going to say something, insist perhaps, but decided against it. He clapped Julian on the back, and made to leave.

She watched them walk away until she could no longer see them. The moon was bright, and crickets chirped insistently. Lucio’s retreating form reminded her very much of that silent card. _The Fool._ Prancing joyfully off the edge of a cliff, thoughtless, reckless, brave and new.

“I hope you make it there, Lucio.” She muttered to herself. Finally, she snuffed out the lantern again, and settled on her sleeping mattress. Just before she went to sleep, the deck called to her, and she drew a card.

It was her patron, The Wheel of Fortune.

What goes around comes around. The wheel of time that binds and frees. She cannot protect him, or indeed, herself, from the consequences of what they had dealt to the world. The Wheel yet turns, unpredictably, and things have been set in motion that cannot be undone. The change is inevitable. She put the card aside, packed up her deck, and lay down to sleep. Her heart was pounding, her thoughts racing, and yet she felt strangely at ease. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, hello, meet my morally screwed over dream team. I hope you catch those references!
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Nyx Hydra. Thank you, Nyx Hydra.
> 
> Title taken from Lucio's book: Death: A Very Long Shadow


End file.
